I feel misplaced in these walls,
like I slipped into a life not meant for me-
a shadow wearing someone else’s name.
This isn’t home.
Home doesn’t watch you like that.
Doesn’t wait-quiet, patient-
for you to disappear.
I am a guest that overstayed,
a breath held too long in borrowed air,
a presence that tightens the room.
I search for a corner that won’t reject me,
a space where I don’t fracture the silence-
where I am not the reason
for raised voices,
for tension stitched into every second.
But every place feels forbidden.
Every step echoes like a mistake.
So I shrink-
into the bed,
into the chair,
into the hollow stare of the mirror
that doesn’t recognize me anymore.
I drift in circles inside this room,
a ghost rehearsing how to exist quietly.
Even my own body feels like trespass.
Hunger becomes a question.
Thirst feels like theft.
The kitchen-
a line I shouldn’t cross.
The water-
not mine to take.
Even the simplest rituals-
washing, breathing, being-
feel like crimes I haven’t been forgiven for yet.
As if somewhere, unseen,
there’s a rulebook written in silence,
and I’ve broken every page of it
just by being here.
So I wait.
For permission.
For absence.
For the moment I finally fade enough
to belong nowhere at all.
Mar 22
Mar 22, 2026 at 10:43 AM UTC
I feel misplaced in these walls,
like I slipped into a life not meant for me-
a shadow wearing someone else’s name.
This isn’t home.
Home doesn’t watch you like that.
Doesn’t wait-quiet, patient-
for you to disappear.
I am a guest that overstayed,
a breath held too long in borrowed air,
a presence that tightens the room.
I search for a corner that won’t reject me,
a space where I don’t fracture the silence-
where I am not the reason
for raised voices,
for tension stitched into every second.
But every place feels forbidden.
Every step echoes like a mistake.
So I shrink-
into the bed,
into the chair,
into the hollow stare of the mirror
that doesn’t recognize me anymore.
I drift in circles inside this room,
a ghost rehearsing how to exist quietly.
Even my own body feels like trespass.
Hunger becomes a question.
Thirst feels like theft.
The kitchen-
a line I shouldn’t cross.
The water-
not mine to take.
Even the simplest rituals-
washing, breathing, being-
feel like crimes I haven’t been forgiven for yet.
As if somewhere, unseen,
there’s a rulebook written in silence,
and I’ve broken every page of it
just by being here.
So I wait.
For permission.
For absence.
For the moment I finally fade enough
to belong nowhere at all.